


Captain

by illwick



Series: Unwind [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom!Sherlock, Dom!John, Domestic Fluff, Double Penetration, Fluff and Angst, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rugby Captain John Watson, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 11:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14019099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock's knees still go weak.





	Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, so very sorry for the fake update, but I've realised that for the trajectory of this series to continue to flow, I need to make this "Rugby" chapter its own installment (instead of being part of the "Fantasy" installment) so that it falls correctly into the timeline. These events are meant to occur between the "Absolution" and "Advent" installments, though sadly I can't figure out for the life of me how to insert this as a stand-alone update in there--if you know, please leave a message in the comments! Thanks, and again, sorry for the false update. I'll have a real update next week!
> 
> In sum: This installment is identical to Chapter 3 of the "Fantasy" series. I'm just putting it here as well for logistical reasons.

The rugby captain was everything that Sherlock was not. Conventionally handsome and athletic, popular and easygoing. He had a roguish smile, broad and open, that he shared generously with everyone-- his teammates, his opponents, and perhaps most infuriatingly, a fair number of the female bystanders who had gathered to watch the match. Despite this fact, Sherlock can’t help but imagine the way those muscular thighs would feel locked between his own, the way that magnificent arse would feel flexing in his eager palms, the way those gorgeous hands would look stroking his--

“Which one’s yours?”

Sherlock is rudely snapped out of his revery by a voice startlingly close to his left shoulder. He’d posted up at the far end of the bleachers, where it was easiest for him to hoist Rosie in and out of her pram as often as she demanded, since she’d resoundly refused to have any sort of interest in the goings-on on the pitch and was instead primarily devoting her attention to throwing her stuffed octopus as far as her pudgy arms could muster, before giggling hysterically and demanding Sherlock aid her in retrieving it. Sherlock had initially been riveted by this little game of her own design (which synapses in her brain were connecting that made the flinging and fetching of the object so enticing? Which recently-developed motor functions were refined by the repetitive movement? Which verbal skills were employed to communicate her demands for assistance? It was fascinating stuff, the lot of it…), but that had only lasted for about the first half hour. Now he was practically bored out of his mind, and frankly, the action on the pitch wasn’t doing much to distract him either. He was beginning to sorely regret letting John convince him to come, regardless of how delectable John’s arse looked in those damned shorts.

“I, um, sorry?” He’s still a bit off-kilter from being so suddenly imposed upon, and he spins around to see the source of his annoyance.

And his breath catches in his throat.

His first thought, nonsensically, is, _‘Alice?’_

But no, of course it’s not Alice. Alice had been dead for over twenty years now, and though she remains resolutely in the shadows of Sherlock’s Mind Palace, she occasionally surfaces to make her presence known.

And this is one such moment.

The girl behind him is not Alice, but she does bear a striking resemblance. She has long, dark hair that falls nearly to her waist, a ski-jump nose dotted with freckles, and wide, inquisitive hazel eyes. She’s wearing a sweater dress and boots (practical for the weather), a fraying denim jacket (with traces of baby food on the sleeve), a purple knit hat (so like the once Alice had, it’s no wonder he’d been startled), and has an eyebrow piercing, nose ring, and lip ring. She’s cradling a sleeping child of about 6 months in a sling across her chest. She looks impossibly young to have a child.

She nods her head passively towards the field. “The lads. Which one is yours? Mine’s Danny. He’s the tight-head prop in the green shirt.” Sherlock directs his attention towards a young man with sandy-coloured hair loping his way across the backfield, shouting something unintelligible to the man next to him. He has a prosthetic leg, which from the looks of his gait is still quite new. He favours his other leg considerably.

He glances back to see that the girl is still staring at him expectantly, and he realises he’s yet to give an answer.

“Oh! Um. The one… in the light blue over there. He’s, uh, the… flanker, I think?” Sherlock had admittedly deleted most of John’s rugby talk from his hard drive immediately after processing it.

“Oooh, the captain? Well done, you.” She gives him a cheeky wink, and Sherlock can’t help but smile back. He still sometimes forgets how much more _open-minded_ society has become, compared to the atmosphere in which he grew up. He initially couldn’t believe John had even invited him to come watch him play, assuming he’d want to keep their relationship away from the inevitable jeers and slurs of teammates and opponents alike. But instead he’d simply rolled his eyes and reminded Sherlock that they were living in a brave new world, in which rugby captains could have male partners and not be beaten senseless in the locker room afterwards. 

Sherlock had remained skeptical, but John had been relentless.

“Come on, Sherlock. It’s a rec league for vets. Everyone’s on the same side. No one is going to take issue with you being there, I swear.”

“I don’t care if they take issue with _me,_ John, it’s you I’m concerned about. You’re their captain, won’t it make them feel… weird, knowing that you’re…” (He still doesn’t say _gay._ Because John is not gay, he’s Sherlock-sexual, and Sherlock has long since acknowledged that the reality of their relationship has little to no bearing on John’s sexual identity, and for the most part, he’s made his peace with it.)

John had pursed his lips and taken a deep breath. “Look, I was skeptical when Dr. Richards recommended that I join the league. I didn’t see how being with other vets was going to impact my life, since I felt like for the most part, my… my PTSD was under control.” 

Sherlock had nodded hesitantly. John wasn’t wrong; his PTSD wasn’t a huge issue for them anymore, but it did still rear its ugly head occasionally, and Sherlock was begrudgingly forced to admit that John having other vet friends to discuss it with had improved his disposition about it considerably.

“But it has helped, Sherlock, surely you’ve noticed that. And I think it may be helpful for you, too, to meet some other military spouses whose partners have similar… similar issues. They’re a really great support network, you know.”

“John, as delightful as I’m sure they are, I’m failing to see how I’ll have anything in common with a bunch of housewives whose lives revolve around their husbands’ careers.”

That had been the last straw. There was a flame in John’s eye, and Sherlock knew he’d crossed a line. “You know, Sherlock, you might just be surprised. Most of them have endured heavier shit than the two of us, and all things considered, I think that’s really saying something. So you might want to show some goddamned respect.”

Sherlock had backpedaled as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I’ll think about it, alright?”

John’s hands had been clenching and unclenching, and Sherlock could tell he was debating turning on his heel and heading out the door for one of the lengthy walks he’d take whenever the two of them would have a row. But instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock could practically hear him counting backwards from ten.

“Alright. Just think about it. The next practice is Sunday afternoon. It would mean a lot to me if you could come.”

John had started seeing a therapist again about four months ago. Though they were both understandably wary after his last disastrous foray into treatment, John had compiled a list of suggested professionals that Sherlock had thoroughly vetted.

When John had initially sent him the list, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that each and every doctor on it specialized in issues of sexual identity and orientation. He’d brought it up to John later that night, secure between the sheets after a rather acrobatic round of passionate sex, and John had summarily reassured him that he wasn’t questioning their relationship. He was simply questioning how to healthily proceed with building a life around it by contextualising his own identity.

So Sherlock had assumed that after starting treatment, John would want to have lots of important Talks about their Feelings and Emotions and Plans For The Future, but thus far, the only tangible changes had been that he had joined a newly-formed touch rugby league for injured veterans, and he now held Sherlock’s hand in public when they accompanied Rosie to the park together. It was all endlessly confusing.

Sherlock shakes himself back into the moment. The girl is still staring at him expectantly, and he quickly rewinds and replays their conversation in his mind, attempting to pick up the narrative thread he’d left dangling.

“Um, yes, he’s… great. He’s great.” His answer sounds lame and stilted, but Sherlock’s never been much for small talk, particularly with strangers.

The girl seems undeterred. “Well, Jack seems to have taken quite a shine to your daughter.” She gestures towards a young raven-haired boy, perhaps three or so, who had joined Rosie in her quest to launch the octopus as far as possible before chasing after it, giggling hysterically. Rosie claps enthusiastically as Jack tosses it into the air, trotting after it with resolute intent.

Sherlock smiles despite himself. “Is he yours, too?”

“Mmmm hmmm. Jack just turned three last week, and this here is Harry.” She bounces the baby resting against her chest, peering down at him with immeasurable fondness. “Six months.”

Sherlock knows that most people would comment on her children at this point, blather in pointless platitudes about their pudgy cheeks or identical angelic curls, but he has no reason to appease this girl; he keeps his response short and succinct. “Jack has very well-developed motor skills for a child his age.” He watches as Jack launches the stuffed octopus once more to a location beneath the bleachers, then skillfully navigates his way past the metal braces to retrieve it. He can hardly wait until Rosie is that mobile; it will improve the quality of their adventures considerably.

The girl laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing. How old is your daughter?”

“A little over two.”

“Oooh, any sign of the terrible twos?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not yet, but she’s doing a pretty good job of keeping us on our toes, regardless. Her name’s Rosie,” he adds as an afterthought, since it seems like something that people would include in a conversation such as this one.

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts,” the girl says with a grin, before reaching up to tuck a long strand of hair behind her ear. 

“You’re an artist?”

She blinks at him, and cocks her head. “Sorry?”

“Your fingernails. You’ve got multicoloured residue beneath them. Oil pastel, it seems, based on the way it’s also adhered to your nail bed. And you have a callus on your right middle finger, from where you rest your paintbrush. You work in multiple mediums, then.”

She breaks into a bemused smile, and Sherlock internally breathes a sigh of relief. He’s never quite sure how people will react when he tries his deductions out on them, and he’s found it to be a rather telling test of character.

“I, um, yeah. I am. Well, I try to be. It’s hard with two kids this young and Danny out of work, you know?” Sherlock nods. “But I get a lot done at night. I don’t sleep much, but I’m productive.” She laughs in a self-deprecating way.

Sherlock feels a throb of familiarity in his chest. She reminds him so much of Alice, the way he and Alice had both been, she with her art and him with his science, brooding and sleepless and clinging to their respective passions with everything they had.

He offers her his most practiced and reassuring smile. “I don’t sleep much, either.”

She shrugs. “Sleep is boring.” 

Her answer catches him so off-guard that before he can even calculate it, he’s giving her a real, sincere smile, not the guarded one he reserves for interactions such as these.

The moment is broken by the arrival of Danny, who ambles up with a lopsided grin on his face, gazed fixed adoringly on Jack, who’s currently engaging Rosie in a game that involves yanking tufts of grass from the sidelines and placing them in her hair.

“There’s my boy!” He scoops up Jack and beams down at him, shifting slightly under the added weight to take the strain off his prosthetic. “And who’s your new friend?”

“This is Rosie,” chimes in the girl. “And her dad, um… sorry, I don’t think I caught your name!”

“Sherlock.” He offers a hand to Danny, who takes it with a firm shake.

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re John Watson’s… um. Person.” He seems momentarily flummoxed, and Sherlock elects to throw him a lifeline, instead of his usual reaction of watching him squirm.

“Partner.”

“Partner, right. And I see you’ve met my wife, Jenny?”

“Not formally, no. Jenny, a pleasure.” He offers his hand and she shakes it, her eyes full of warmth. Sherlock feels unexpectedly drawn to her, despite his usual wariness towards outsiders.

She rises, holding Harry to her chest, and clambers off the bleachers onto the grass. “Well, Sherlock, it was lovely to meet you. See you here next week?”

Sherlock nods automatically, despite himself. “I’ll be here.”

Jenny flashes him one last smile and Danny offers him an awkward wave before they make their way off towards the park entrance.

Sherlock scans the pitch for John, who appears to be engaged in a rather heated conversation with two of his teammates. He initially things it might be an argument, but upon a quick analysis of John’s body language (shoulders back, weight evenly distributed, hands open and relaxed, and though he’s too far away to tell for sure, Sherlock has a feeling he’s smiling), he instead concludes that they’re simply discussing strategy or some other such trivial nonsense. 

Sighing, Sherlock makes his way off the bleachers and scoops up Rosie, plopping her into her pram and placing her octopus next to her. She summarily ignores it and cries out indignantly, reaching towards the grass, which she’s evidently decided is a far superior toy. The next ten minutes are spent attempting to placate her, so by the time John FINALLY concludes his conversation and deigns to grace them with his presence, Sherlock is more than ready to go home.

He almost regrets going to the match. Almost. It wasn’t that he’d had a _bad_ time, per se, it was more that a majority of it had been quite tedious, and keeping Rosie occupied had been too consuming for him to indulge in any rugby-related erotic fantasies. Meeting Jenny had been a pleasant enough turn-up, but Sherlock wasn’t much for friendship, and by the time they arrive back at the flat, he’s working up the courage to break it to John that he’s not planning to make attending his matches a habit.

But John, apparently sensing Sherlock’s intentions, refuses to let him get a word in edgewise. Instead, he implores Sherlock to put Rosie down for her nap while he showers off the grime of the game, and then he’s disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sherlock blinking indignantly in his wake.

Fifteen minutes later, though, Sherlock has changed his tune entirely.

After putting Rosie down, Sherlock had just made his way back downstairs, intent on starting a new experiment in the kitchen, when John had summoned him from the bedroom. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he trudged down the hallway and flung open the bedroom door.

Only to be jumped by a very randy, _very_ naked John Watson.

It’s clear that John is eager to reward Sherlock for his participation that afternoon. He’s usually adamant that they not engage in penetrative sex during Rosie’s naps (it takes a while to get Sherlock properly prepped, and all too often they’re rudely interrupted by Rosie’s cries on the baby monitor before they’ve even gotten to the main event, making hand jobs or blow jobs a much better bet in those particular circumstances). But much to Sherlock’s delight, this afternoon John expresses no such qualms. He strips Sherlock out of his clothes with practiced precision, and in no time at all, he’s got three fingers inside of him, dripping with lube, as he sucks and licks at Sherlock’s twitching cock with vocal enthusiasm.

Sherlock is in heaven. John has a tendency to be a bit of a spoilsport about any type of afternoon delight (always prattling on that he should be doing the cleaning or the shopping or the laundry or other such trivial nonsense), so the opportunity to have him like this, naked and golden in the late afternoon sun, prodding Sherlock’s prostate as he tongues at Sherlock’s slit, grinning up at him devilishly, has Sherlock lust-drunk and begging.

After what feels like an eternity, John kisses his way up Sherlock’s heaving chest before plundering his mouth, all the while continuing to scissor his fingers inside of him. Sherlock whines and arches in desperation, and at long last, John pulls back, smiling beatifically down at him.

He rolls Sherlock onto his side and grabs him behind the knee of his top leg, pressing his thigh back to pull him open completely. Then John shuffles forward on his knees and guides his cock gently inside.

This position is marvelous. John can penetrate Sherlock incredibly deeply at this angle (certainly more deeply than when they do it missionary-style), but unlike when he simply takes him from behind, their current arrangement allows them to maintain eye contact. John takes full advantage, alternating between heated gazes and desperate kisses, observing Sherlock’s every gasp and whimper with reverent delight. Sherlock finds himself unable to do anything but lose himself in John’s eyes, the feeling of John’s cock inside of him, hitting all the right places, incapacitating him completely. He moans and reaches back to pull his own arsecheek aside, urging John to penetrate him more deeply still. John sinks further in with an appreciative sigh, his eyelashes fluttering in ecstasy.

“Mmmm, Sherlock. Are you close?”

Sherlock nods blearily, the sound of his own heartbeat nearly deafening in his ears.

“Me, too. Touch yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock simply nods again and then wraps his hand around his own cock, which has begun to leak copiously.

He strokes himself steadily, deliberately, swiping his thumb across the crown of his cock just the way that makes his balls tighten and his breath stutter. John’s eyes are riveted to where Sherlock is touching himself, the evidence of the pleasure John is providing him exposed for his perusal. John’s thrusts accelerate ever so slightly, and he leans down to capture Sherlock’s lips in a sloppy kiss.

John sits up just in time to pull Sherlock’s leg back and open just ever so slightly more, penetrating him just a little bit further, and that’s all it takes. Sherlock grunts and stiffens as John strikes his prostate directly once, twice, three times, and then he’s spilling helplessly onto the bedsheets, his hand keeping up a steady rhythm as his cock pulses out his pleasure.

Somewhat startlingly, John comes at the same time. The feeling of his twitching prick expelling its release deep inside Sherlock only serves to spurn Sherlock on, and he tightens his grip on his own cock and strokes himself even faster, riding out the tail end of his orgasm, reveling in the way his channel clenches down on John’s length, milking more come from him as they both gasp and moan in surprise at their perfectly-coordinated release.

Finally, they’re both spent. John withdraws and collapses next to him, panting heavily. Sherlock wipes his hand next to the puddle already forming on the sheets and rolls onto his back, legs splayed, delighting in the sensation of John’s come, slick and warm, between his cheeks and leaking from his hole. It’s absolutely delicious.

John takes a deep breath. Sherlock knows he’s about to make some vague exclamation of contentment (“Brilliant!” “Amazing!” “Fantastic!”), but before he can vocalize his satisfaction, Rosie’s telltale wail sounds from the baby monitor. 

So instead, John just swears quietly, rolls over to plant a wet kiss on a sated Sherlock’s open lips, and shuffles to the door to grab his dressing gown before making his way down the hall, shouting out a request to Sherlock to put the sheets in the laundry before the sound of his footsteps on the stairs to the nursery overtakes the timbre of his voice.

Sherlock sighs and stretches, delighting in his post-orgasmic glow.

Perhaps becoming a rugby fan wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

And so, one week later, Sherlock finds himself begrudgingly making his way to the park with Rosie, her pram, three baggies of assorted snacks, two stuffed animals (her favourite, the octopus, and strangely, a stuffed duck from Mrs. Turner that she’d shown absolutely no interest in prior to this afternoon, whereupon she’d randomly decided it was imperative to have it with her at all times and cried inconsolably when Sherlock attempted to convince her to leave it back at the flat), and an umbrella. The sky outside was low and grey and it had been threatening rain all day, but John insisted perkily that they’d be playing “Rain or shine!” as he’d practically skipped out the door of the flat an hour beforehand, water bottle and duffel bag in hand.

Sherlock settles himself back on the corner of the bleachers and plops Rosie onto the grass before handing her a handful of cereal to consume (or, more likely, mash up and rub in her hair, but hell, he wasn’t going to be picky), then scans the pitch for John.

And there he is, a goddamn vision in his brilliantly casual athletic shorts and faded ARMY t-shirt, hair whipping in the wind and a grin on his face as he participates in what Sherlock hastily concludes is some sort of passing drill. He focuses on the fascinating way that John’s calves flex and contract as he pivots gracefully around a series of cones, conjuring up a pleasant comparison to their appearance when Sherlock is fellating John in the shower and he lets himself get worked up, John rising up on his toes to give himself better leverage to push his cock further down Sherlock’s throat as he nears climax. It’s interesting, really, the way that particular muscle group--

“Hello there, stranger.” Sherlock is once again wrenched from his fantasy by Jenny’s now-familiar voice, and he turns to see her waving enthusiastically as she makes her way over to the bleachers, Jack in tow and a diaper bag slung across her shoulder, and Harry strapped resolutely across her chest. “Mind if I join you?”

Sherlock manages a shrug, though he’s secretly quite pleased that she’s here. Though she’d interrupted his rather salacious train of thought for a second time, he has no illusions that he’d have been able to daydream much longer anyway; Rosie had a way of putting a quick stop to all that under any circumstances. So he’s hardly bothered as Jenny unfurls a plaid blanket on the grass and sets Jack on it before dumping out a bag full of plastic blocks, which Rosie gravitates towards like a moth to flame. In no time, the two children are engrossed with the colorful shapes, and Jenny has settled next to Sherlock on the bleachers, bouncing Harry absently as she offers a brief summary of her day.

“I honestly didn’t think we’d make it today. Jack’s skipped his nap for the third day in a row, and as of this morning, Harry was absolutely refusing to eat for no apparent reason whatsoever. If it’d been up to me, I’d’ve locked myself in the bedroom and cried for an hour or two, but then Danny would have been late for practice, and so,” she throws up her hands in exasperation, “here we are.” Her voice is tight and laced with weary exasperation.

Sherlock feels a pang of sympathy. He usually finds he has little in common with other parents. All the strangers he and John have met at the playground ever seemed to want to talk about is milestones and Primary schools and and how _gifted_ their progeny surely were (they were not, but John had explicitly forbade Sherlock from saying so), and Sherlock found it all relentlessly tedious. They were lying, all of them-- it was painfully obvious from the lines around their eyes to the wrinkles on their clothes to the way their voices pitched up at the end of each sentence, it was all just an elaborate facade, a melancholy piece of play-acting at being ‘just fine,’ when in reality, they were all tired and frustrated and deeply paranoid that they were somehow failing their children simply by not being _enough._ Sherlock found the whole charade deeply troublesome, a concern which he’d voiced openly to John, who’d informed Sherlock that he was heretofore excused from socialization with strangers at the playground (though Sherlock suspected that his pardon was not an act of benevolence but instead one of self-preservation, after Sherlock unceremoniously informed the third set of parents that no, their child was not on-track to test out of Year 1).

Sherlock gives Jenny a once-over; she has deep purple circles under her eyes (clearly sleep-deprived), her brow is slightly furrowed (indicative of mild pain), and she lets out an absent-minded sniffle. “Not only that, but I’m congested and completely exhausted. I think I’m getting a cold.”

Sherlock cocks his head appraisingly. “Do you drink Waitrose-brand coffee?”

She blinks at him, eyes wide and startled, clearly more than a bit confused. “Um… yes?”

“Did you buy a new bag this week?”

“...Yes?”

Sherlock nods, his hypothesis confirmed. “You bought the decaf by mistake.”

“Sorry?”

“Fatigue, headache, even mild congestion. All common symptoms of caffeine withdrawl. You check every box.”

She shakes her head, bewildered. “But I got the same kind I always do.”

“In the blue bag?”

“That’s the one.”

“They changed up the branding at the turn of the fiscal year. The blue bag’s decaf now. You need to get the green one.”

She stares at him a moment longer, then throws back her head and laughs, an honest, brassy sound that elicits an involuntary smile from Sherlock. “Okay, genius. How could you _possibly_ have known that?”

“Your symptoms were textbook. It hardly takes a genius.”

“But I somehow doubt you knew the information about the labels off the top of your head, unless you’re some sort of marketing executive…” She squints at him appraisingly. “Which, no offense, I don’t really peg you for. So really, what’s your secret?”

Sherlock smiles sheepishly. “John did the same thing earlier this week. Took me three days to figure it out, embarrassingly.”

She laughs again. “Why is that embarrassing? I’m impressed you figured it out at all, I’d just chalked it up to exhaustion!”

“Well, I’m a detective by trade. Noticing these things is… well, it’s my job. So three days was not my best work, to put it mildly.”

She’s intrigued now, her body language indicates that much. And before Sherlock knows it, they’ve launched into a conversation about his latest case. 

Jenny is delightfully perceptive. She doesn’t ask any of the dull, mundane questions that less intellectually endowed people usually do; she’s polite but inquisitive, engaged and curious, and he’s tickled to find that she’s not repulsed when he summarises the results of his latest decomposition study for her.

“Wait wait wait,” she gasps out between giggles as he’s disclosing his findings. “The decomposition was delayed because the body was encased in a barrel of _curry powder?”_

“Precisely. The high concentration of linalool aided in the preservation; it’s a naturally-occurring turpene alcohol, you see--”

“Found in most flowers and spice plants.”

He stops and blinks, momentarily confounded by her contribution. She simply grins slyly back at him.

“I read a lot of biology books back in the day. When I was young, I used to want to be an illustrator for biology textbooks.”

He’s intrigued. “What did you become instead?”

She shrugs. “This. I met Danny just before he enlisted. We got married right before he left on his second tour. I was pregnant with Jack at the time. Then Danny got injured and when he was discharged, it was a full-time job, between the baby and his rehabilitation. I’d just started temping when I got pregnant with Harry. I’m planning to go back to work soon; Danny’s pension isn’t exactly enough to support the four of us.”

Sherlock’s brain rattles and whirs. He’s not quite sure what to say; he doesn’t want to come off as patronising, yet he can’t seem to conjure a thought that doesn’t come off as with a whiff of condescending superiourity. He’s still grasping at straws when he feels the first drops of rain fall.

“Oh, _hell_ no.” Jenny’s on her feet in an instant, navigating off the bleachers with as much grace as she can muster while still holding Harry to her chest. “I _told_ Danny there was no way I was sticking around if it starts to rain. The last thing I need is two drenched kids and a waterlogged diaper bag.”

Sherlock joins her without hesitation, helping her scoop up the blocks and fold the blanket back into her bag. The clouds haven’t opened up yet, but there’s little doubt that they’re living on borrowed time.

“Hey, would you… um, do you want to go grab a coffee? A properly-caffeinated one? There’s a cafe near here that’s good with kids. You and Rosie shouldn’t be out in this, either.”

As much as Sherlock would like to stay and appreciate the spectacle of a soaking-wet John Watson engaging in strenuous physical activity, he objectively acknowledges that it’s probably for the best that he gets Rosie inside before the deluge.

He accepts Jenny’s offer with a smile.

John is apparently _delighted_ with the prospect of Sherlock making a new friend. Sherlock had initially felt a bit guilty as they abandoned the playing fields to seek shelter in the cafe and wondered if John would think this meant Sherlock was skipping out on his ‘supportive partner’ duties, but John’s almost embarrassingly optimistically encouraging when he responds to Sherlock’s text notifying him of his and Jenny’s whereabouts. By the time the storm passes and Sherlock heads back to the flat, John is waiting for him there, showered and dry and wearing nothing but a dressing gown, a twinkle in his eye.

John wastes no time putting Rosie down for her nap, and it quickly becomes delightfully apparent that he has every intention of making a post-match shag something of a tradition, a turn-up that Sherlock finds quite agreeable indeed. They don’t make it further than the sitting room sofa, John procuring a bottle of lube from the emergency stash they keep hidden in the sofa cushions, and before Sherlock knows what hit him, he’s stark naked and John is three fingers deep inside him, nipping at his bottom lip as Sherlock straddles him, rubbing their cocks together with an air of desperation, their moans camouflaged by the sound of another patch of rain passing through, spattering the windows in a steady drone.

All too soon, John pulls away and gazes up at Sherlock, his eyes hungry and intent. His lips are gloriously swollen from their heated kisses, and Sherlock whimpers as he sits back onto John’s fingers, willing him to press deeper inside him still.

“Christ, you feel so good, Sherlock. Do you feel ready?”

“Mmm, yes, John, I’ve been ready for ages.”

“Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me. Excuse me for wanting to spoil you a bit for once, Jesus…”

“Sorry, sorry.” 

“That’s more like it.” John withdraws his fingers and Sherlock gasps at the loss, feeling obscenely open in the cool air of the sitting room. “Turn around and ride me, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s brain feels muzzy but he complies, standing to face away from John before straddling John’s legs and lowering himself slowly down. John uses one hand to part Sherlock’s cheeks and the other to guide his own cock inside Sherlock’s eager hole, and Sherlock’s whole body shudders as he grips John’s thighs to control his descent. By the time his arsecheeks come into contact with John’s thighs, they’re both trembling with desire, fighting to keep themselves under control.

“Mmmm, fuck _yes,”_ John murmurs, guiding Sherlock to recline so that his back is flush with John’s chest. John wraps his arms protectively around him and suckles wetly at the side of Sherlock’s neck, his cock simply pulsing gently inside him as Sherlock’s body adjusts to the intrusion.

At long last, John begins to grind up into him, not even thrusting, really, just soft, steady tilts of his pelvis, angling his cock to prod ever so gently against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock gasps at the sensation and his own cock pulses out a bead of precome, which John runs his fingers lightly through before turning his attention to Sherlock’s nipples.

At first he simply traces Sherlock’s areolas with feather-light touches of his fingertips. Somewhat surprisingly, the sensation of his nipples hardening seems to cause Sherlock’s channel to constrict in sympathy, and they both gasp as he clenches around John’s cock.

 _“Oh,_ that’s… that’s lovely.” John circles his hips ever so slightly before pinching Sherlock’s nipples with brisk efficiency, and they both gasp as Sherlock’s arse pulses in response. “You feel that, Sherlock? Stimulation of your nipples seems to make your arse tighten.”

“Y-yes, John. Fascinating.”

“Mmm-hmm. I think this merits a bit more experimentation.”

And experiment he does. For an unidentifiable length of time (Sherlock is so deliriously blissed out he can’t bring himself to quantify it), John entertains himself by providing Sherlock’s nipples with varying forms of stimulation, and then narrating the effect it seems to have on the tightness of his hole. Sherlock is fairly certain that he’d find the entire experiment endlessly fascinating if he were in a more coherent state of mind, but as it stands, he’s so lost in his own arousal that he barely knows up from down.

“...Oh, and if I add just a bit of moisture before I twist them, just like _this,_ you see--” (John licks his fingers and gives Sherlock’s nipples a hard twist; Sherlock emits an undignified grunt as his cock expels a thick stream of precome onto his abs), “your hole flutters a bit throughout the duration of the pressure, but deep inside, just around the head of my cock. You feel that? Here, let me do it again…” (Sherlock wails, but does note with a mild sense of bewilderment that John is right--he’ll need to interview John once this is over to catalogue these results).

Finally, Sherlock can’t take it anymore. “P-please, John. Please.”

“Please what?”

“I need to… I’m going to come.”

“Mmm, alright.” John removes his fingers from Sherlock’s nipples, and Sherlock sucks in a breath as the cool air of the sitting room comes into contact with the inflamed nubs. John’s hands come to rest on Sherlock’s hips, which he begins to raise and lower. Sherlock’s head drops back to rest even more heavily against John’s shoulder. “How does this feel?”

“Good, John.”

“Think you can keep doing that while I touch your nipples?”

Sherlock nods blearily, performing several very fuzzy mental calculations. He brings his hands to rest beside John’s hips on the sofa cushion, then he braces his arms and plants his feet firmly on the ground. With as much resolve as he can muster in his current state, he begins to raise and lower his pelvis, impaling himself over and over on the length of John’s cock.

John lets out an appreciate sigh before mercifully returning his attentions to Sherlock’s nipples.

It’s exquisite. Sherlock fucks himself with heady abandon, his head dropping heavily back against John’s shoulder, mouth agape as he attempts to suck in enough air to service his galloping heart. He’s distantly aware of the sensation of his own cock, thick with arousal, slapping wetly against his own abdomen as he raises and lowers himself with increasing desperation, but it’s only an afterthought compared to the blazing heat of John’s fingernails digging into the tender flesh of his nipples, lighting up his nerve endings like searing hot flames.

“Yeah, yeah… little faster… _yes, Sherlock, brilliant, amazing, oh my God, YES, Christ, brilliant, you’re so good, you’re so good…”_ Impossibly, more prickles of heat erupt along Sherlock’s spine, John’s words hitting him every place his hands and cock and body cannot.

Suddenly, John’s hands fly from Sherlock’s nipples to his hips, and the next thing Sherlock knows, John’s locking him in place and coming, his cock pulsing out thick waves of wet heat into Sherlock’s channel as he moans wetly into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

The instant he finishes, he doesn’t withdraw. Instead, one hand returns to Sherlock’s right nipple, which he re-commences twisting and plucking with enthusiastic vigor. His left hand flies to Sherlock’s cock, which he begins to jerk with practiced efficiency.

It’s mere seconds before Sherlock is coming, clenching down onto John’s softening cock as he rides out wave after wave of pleasure, striping his own chest and abdomen with streaks of come as John mutters obscene proclamations of admiration into his ear as Sherlock falls entirely, irrevocably to pieces in his arms.

Afterwards, they lie curled up together on the sofa beneath the tartan throw, having made a hasty attempt at wiping themselves down with Sherlock’s discarded shirt. By some miracle, Rosie hasn’t risen from her nap (though she had been up twice the night before, Sherlock notes, so perhaps she’ll stay down for a while yet), so they simply bask in the peaceful calm of post-coital bliss, listening to the rain pound against the windows as the storm worsens outside. 

Sherlock feels sated and spent, but he’s too wired from the coffee with Jenny to doze off. A part of their conversation from that afternoon rewinds and replays in his mind; he’d catalogued it away with a note to ask John about it, and now seems like as good a time as any.

“John?”

“Hmm?” John’s voice is low, and Sherlock smiles at the way the tone makes his chest rumble beneath where Sherlock’s cheek is resting.

“Why don’t you drive?”

John stiffens. Sherlock immediately realises that perhaps he hadn't fully quantified exactly how personal this question might be; when Jenny talked about it, she did it so matter-of-factly that it hadn’t exactly occurred to Sherlock that just asking about it, apropos of nothing, might be a bit _not good._

When John finally responds, his tone is flat and measured; he’s clearly taking care to keep himself in check. “Why do you ask?” He doesn’t sound angry, per se, but he’s certainly not comfortable, and Sherlock props himself up on his elbow to meet John’s eyes. His gaze is steady and levelling and not entirely readable.

“Um, I just…” He suddenly finds himself a bit at a loss for words. “... was wondering. Is all.”

John can tell he’s lying. His brow furrows and the corners of his lips turn down, but he still doesn’t seem angry. He lifts his hand to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, twisting a ringlet absently before he finally speaks. “So after… after more than half a decade of knowing me, you just randomly decided that this very Sunday afternoon would be a good time to ask me why I don’t drive?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Is it… a bad time?”

“No, it’s not, but if we’re having this conversation, I need you to be honest with me about what started it.”

Sherlock presses his lips together, but decides that there’s no harm in disclosure. “Jenny said Danny doesn’t drive anymore because he was piloting the vehicle when it hit the IED that cost him his leg. And I got to thinking, all those times on cases, you always deferred to me to drive, said it made more sense since I had all the maps memorized, but I later noticed that even… even with Mary, she usually drove. I’ve seen you behind the wheel once, maybe twice, and those times it was in an extenuating circumstance, lots of adrenaline involved, and… and I just wondered. If there was a reason. And if there were, I thought maybe… maybe I should know.”

John is quiet for a long time. Long enough that Sherlock wonders if maybe he’s not going to respond at all, maybe he’s just going to extricate himself from Sherlock’s embrace and throw on some clothes and stalk outside into the rain, muttering something about _needing some air._

But instead, he just lays there quietly, fingers gently coming through Sherlock’s hair, eyes unfocused and distant. Finally, he lets out a chuckle, closing his eyes and shaking his head, as if coming back to reality from a temporary excursion to a faraway time and place.

“Is something funny?” Sherlock’s a bit lost in all this.

“No, not funny.” When John opens his eyes, they’re warm and calm, and his gaze meets Sherlock’s unreproachfully. “I just… I mean, I specifically requested that you come to my matches in the hopes that you’d be able to make a connection with the spouses there, because Dr. Richards suggested that connecting with the spouses may be as beneficial to you as it was for me to connect with the other vets on the squad. And now you’ve gone and done that, just as I asked you to, and you’re starting a conversation about a topic we’ve always avoided before, and that’s exactly what Dr. Richards wanted us to get from this, and yet I’m… I’m…”

“Look, John, if you don’t want to talk about it--”

“No, Sherlock, I do. I mean, I don’t _want_ to, but I realise that maybe I need to. We’ve been good about opening up to each other with a lot of stuff, this time around. And with… with the PTSD, you’re so good to me about it. You’re patient and responsive, and God, the last time I got worked up and you suggested that session, Christ, that was amazing…” 

A few months ago, John had gone through a period in which the loud construction noises from Mrs. Turner’s flat had triggered him multiple days in a row. Sherlock, eventually at a loss, had come up with a plan that involved John arriving home to find Sherlock on his knees, belts in hand, begging to be dominated. The results had been quite… quite positive, if he did say so himself.

“So… yeah. Yeah, I do want to talk about this. Now is fine.”

Sherlock nods slowly and leans into John’s caresse. John licks his lips.

“I was driving when my convoy hit an IED. It wasn’t my vehicle that got hit, it was the one in front of mine. We all got out to help, and that’s when we were ambushed. It was a setup, and I was shot by a sniper from about 100 metres out. The rest… the rest of it is a bit jumbled, but… but no, you’re right, I don’t much like to drive anymore. It makes me feel on edge. And it’s a funny thing, really; when Mary and I lived in Watford and had a car, some days I would walk out the door and climb in and I’d be halfway to work before I even remembered that I should be feeling strange. Other days I’d get to the car and couldn’t face it at all. So I settled for cycling. Or the bus.”

Sherlock nods slowly. John smiles up at him.

“So… that’s that.”

Sherlock shifts and presses a kiss against John’s palm. It’s strange, even after all they’ve been through, it’s the first time John’s ever talked about the war. Sherlock finds this new knowledge strangely comforting; although he’d deduced the gist of it (sniper’s bullet, obvious from the caliber and angle of the shot, followed by a ravaging infection that left behind a mottled web of scar tissue in its wake), to hear it from John somehow made it seem less daunting.

John cups Sherlock’s jaw in his hand and guides him down for a kiss, slow and sensual. For a while it’s just a steady slide of lips and tongues and the intoxicating sensation of their nude forms pressed together, but eventually John pulls away.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Thank you. For… for coming to the match. For… for giving Jenny a chance. I know you don’t take to new people easily, and I just wanted to say… it means a lot.”

“Well, don’t get too used to it. I have a strict quota of one new friend per half decade. Billy pretty much had the position on lock, but I reckon Jenny may give him a run for his money. Regardless, when the invites go out for holiday drinks, there will only be room for one.”

John chuckles and cuffs at him good-naturedly before pulling Sherlock back in for another kiss. Sherlock is contemplating proposing a second round when, inevitably, the sound of Rosie’s babble echoes down the stairwell, ushering in a withering sigh from John, who moves to sit up.

“No, let me get her.” Sherlock pries himself from John’s arms and makes his way down the hallway to find his dressing gown. “You strained your left hamstring during the match, I noticed you favouring your right leg when I got home. You should get some heat on it, or it’s only going to get worse,” he calls out over his shoulder. 

Sherlock grows to enjoy their Sunday afternoon tradition. John trots out the door headed to warm-ups, eyes bright and grinning from ear to ear, then Sherlock follows an hour later with Rosie in tow, just in time for the match. He and Jenny sit and talk and watch the kids play (and occasionally there’s a pause long enough for Sherlock to capture some delightful images of John in action on the pitch to peruse in his Mind Palace later), then he and John return home and then John showers and fucks Sherlock’s brains out while Rosie naps, and then they order takeout for dinner and watch crap telly and go to bed. Though he’s not much for routine, Sherlock can’t help but appreciate this newly-established regimin (not to mention the fact he’s developed a near-Pavlovian response to John in workout gear; one Tuesday evening John randomly emerged from the bedroom wearing athletic shorts after a long day at the surgery, and Sherlock had no choice but to suck him off then and there in the hallway, greedily gripping John’s muscular glutes to guide his cock as far down Sherlock’s throat as he could take it).

And strangely, his acquaintanceship with Jenny blossoms to a friendship with unprecedented ease. She’s clever and witty and just a bit too sarcastic for polite company, which Sherlock profoundly appreciates. And she understands things about the way he and John work that most other people simply don’t.

She invites Sherlock to go to the Infinity Rooms exhibit with her at the Victoria Miro. “Danny won’t want to go, he’s not much for fluctuating crowds in small spaces. I thought maybe you’d want to join me instead?”

Sherlock notes that John has the exact same trigger.

She organises an outing for the four of them (she refuses to call it a double date) to go see some dull-looking action movie at the cinema. Sherlock can’t for the LIFE of him figure out why she’s so completely adamant that they attend the film in the first place on that particular day at that particular time (it had gotten terrible reviews, and none of them were huge cinema buffs), and it’s not until they’re en route to the cinema that Sherlock puts it all together; it’s Bonfire Night, and Jenny’s scheduled them to be at the cinema for the duration of the fireworks show. The theatre is blissfully soundproofed, and Sherlock is profoundly grateful that Jenny had been thoughtful enough to navigate the situation with such grace.

Her consideration for Danny’s needs is thoughtful without being condescending, vigilant without being overbearing.

Sherlock takes mental notes.

It’s an idle Wednesday evening and Sherlock is just finishing up a new experiment comparing several various hemostatic agents when John blusters through the door, grinning from ear to ear. He makes his way into the kitchen, plops Rosie into her high chair, and ruffles Sherlock’s curls affectionately. “Hello, gorgeous.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Sherlock is politely skeptical; usually when John has this much spring in his step, he’s either come up with some hair-brained idea for fun family bonding, or stumbled across a particularly valuable mail-in coupon from the Tesco-- the odds are 50/50.

“I just got a call from the manager of our rugby league. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

“You’ve been drafted to go pro. You’re now officially the oldest rugby player in the English professional league.”

“No.”

“Oh! They’ve decided to form a professional geriatric league instead, and you’ll be the head of it. I believe congratulations are in order.”

John rolls his eyes and turns to grab a beer out of the fridge, cracking it open and taking a swig as he swaggers over to pull up a chair at the table.

“Ha, ha. Kidding aside, though, you’re not that far off base. They’re putting on a big charity match, and the members of our league have been invited to play alongside a few participating pros at Twickenham Stoop!”

Sherlock blinks absently.

John sighs and shakes his head. “It’s a big, fancy pro stadium.”

“Oh.” Sherlock takes another moment to process this information. He’s not quite sure why John would be excited to play rugby at a stadium instead of the usual park at St. John’s Wood; would it really alter the quality of the game that much?

But then he remembers: sentiment. John has always adored rugby, and now he’s getting a chance to play alongside professionals at a (presumably) famous venue. Sherlock adjust his expression accordingly.

“Oh! That’s excellent, John. Excellent.” He offers his biggest smile.

John shakes his head, smirking a little. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Sherlock drops the act and glowers at him. “Of course I do: sentiment. Obvious. And while I may not understand _why_ you’re happy, I’m happy that you’re happy. That’s about the best I can offer, alright?”

John rises to his feet and walks over to press a soft kiss against his lips. “I know, Sherlock. Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

Sherlock responds with a huff, but then John kisses him again, and the next thing he knows, all sensations of annoyance have been replaced by a warm tingling feeling that--

“Adda! Din! Din!” Rosie’s voice is jarring in the silence of the kitchen.

John pulls away with a sigh and makes his way over to the cupboards to start putting together Rosie’s dinner.

“You know, Sherlock, I’d’ve thought the news of me playing in a proper stadium would have been of a bit more interest to you.”

Sherlock is skeptical. “And why might that be?” He turns his attention back to his notebook, where he’s entering the last of the data from his experiment.

“Well, I do recall you saying something about a particular fantasy of yours involving a rugby captain. I thought perhaps this would add a new degree of verisimilitude to that particular fantasy.”

Sherlock pauses in his data entry to chew the eraser of his pencil absently. Perhaps this _would_ add an interesting dynamic… but--

“I was thinking we could leave Rosie with Mrs. H. for the night of the match,” John continues. “Maybe get a hotel room.”

_Oh._

Sherlock’s mind warps into hyperdrive, conjuring a thousand salacious scenarios of the types of things he and John could get up to following the match.

When he re-emerges from his Mind Palace, he’s not quite certain how long he’s been spaced out, blinking down blindly at the pages of his notebook, but he’s fairly certain it’s been long enough for John to have noticed.

“I, um. Yes. Yes, John, I think that’s… that’s an excellent idea.”

John tosses him an innocent glance over his shoulder. “Mmm. Good.”

“Good…. Now, when did you say the match was, again?”

The next three weeks are _interminable._ Sherlock is _convinced_ that John has intentionally taken on the role of provocative seductor with heretofore unprecedented gusto, parading about the flat in his workout gear on random days of the week (“Honestly, Sherlock, I’m on my way to practice! I _told_ you we’ve added weeknight sessions in preparation for the charity match, didn’t you hear me?” No, Sherlock had _not_ heard him, over the volumes his athletic shorts and clingy t-shirts were speaking), hitting the gym before work in the mornings (had John’s triceps _always_ looked like that? He’s fairly certain they had _not),_ and, perhaps most infuriatingly, fraternizing with a widening circle of people who casually called him _Captain._

The first time it happens, it’s after practice on a Sunday, and Sherlock and John are bidding Jenny and Danny farewell as they bundle Rosie into her pram. Danny has Jack in one arm and the other slung casually around Jenny’s shoulder as they turn to make their way out of the park. “See you soon, Sherlock. Later, Cap!”

And Sherlock had frozen in place.

 _“Cap?”_ he hissed under his breath to John, who seemed entirely unaffected by the exchange.

“Well, yeah. Some of the lads on the squad call me Cap. Short for Captain, you know.”

Sherlock’s blood threatens to boil. “I know bloody well what _Cap_ stands for, John, I’m not an imbecile. But why do they call you that?”

John looks lost. “Because… I’m the captain of the squad? And… that was my rank in the Army? It’s hardly a leap, here, Sherlock…”

Sherlock is beyond seething, but he keeps it to himself. He simply makes sure that during their post-match shag, John is properly reminded that Sherlock, too, enjoys using his rank, in a _very_ different and immeasurably superior capacity.

By the time the night of the charity match comes around, Sherlock is so high strung with anticipation that Jenny actually mocks him for it. They’d agreed to meet before the match for a drink (Jenny having procured a sitter as well, so she’d been adamant that they make a proper evening of it), and Sherlock shifts eagerly from foot to food as they nurse their pints at the bar.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I’ve never seen you take so much as a passing interest in the game, and now you’re acting like we’re about to attend the bloody World Cup. Calm _down,_ will you?”

“Sorry, I’m just… um, nervous.” Though he doesn’t always take social cues gracefully, he’s fairly certain admitting that he’s simply anxious for John to roger him senseless during an extended role-play session at a nearby hotel post-match probably firmly fell into the _not good_ category.

Jenny laughs. “Nervous? Why? It’s just a charity match, it’s not like there’s any real competition.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “I know. It’s just… it’s important to John.”

Jenny looks positively chuffed. “Ohhhhh, Sherlock Holmes, that’s _sweet!_ You act all cold and uncaring, but deep down, you want to see your man happy. I _knew_ it!”

Sherlock pretends to smile shyly. Meanwhile, his brain provides him with a _delightfully_ distracting fantasy involving several unorthodox uses for John’s cleat laces.

The match is, as far as Sherlock can tell, a success. There’s a fair turnout (including Greg, Molly, and a few other Yarders that Sherlock hadn’t seen in awhile but that he knows John occasionally meets up with to drink and to watch sports at the pub), plenty of media coverage, and it’s ultimately revealed that the match and its sponsorships raised well over £30,000 for the Help for Heroes project, a handsome sum for the organization and its members.

But all that matters to Sherlock is John.

Because John is _magnificent._ Whether he’s in motion on the field, muscles coiled and eyes determined in the face of competition, or laughing effortlessly on the sidelines, his head thrown back and eyes wrinkled and fond, handsome and at ease, he is perfect tonight. He is everything -- _everything_ \-- Sherlock has ever wanted. It leaves him breathless in a startling, unnerving sort of way. He feels… is it _proud?_ He’s always proud to have John at his side, of course, but he realises that most of the time, John is disguised by his unassuming, innocent facade, easily overlooked. But tonight he is _electric,_ he is _dazzling,_ he has let down his walls and let the world see the true John Watson, brilliant and pure and so goddamn _sexy_ that Sherlock is consistently relieved for the coverage his Belstaff provides, lest the less-than-savory source for his interest in the proceedings on the pitch be revealed.

At long last, the match concludes, they endure a seeming eternity of photo ops and interviews, and finally all gather in a pub down the street for a celebratory pint.

John’s teammates are loud and rambunctious. John introduces Sherlock to a few more of them (including one or two professional players-- Sherlock can tell by the way John puffs up his chest ever so slightly as he’s introducing them that he’s practically giddy with excitement, but attempting to play it cool), and Sherlock does his best to behave himself-- honestly, he does. But in rowdy situations such as this one, being on his best behaviour is synonymous with him being silent, and he can feel himself mentally retreating inward as the cloying, oppressive heat and stench of the pub threaten to overwhelm him. There are too many people here, their faces are too close and they’re too friendly, especially towards John, they’re all drawn to him, leaning in towards him, _touching_ him in ways that make Sherlock recoil in sympathetic horror.

John, of course, is completely unaffected. He looks totally at ease, relaxed and in his element, the hero of the hour. Sherlock feels increasingly wretched by the minute, a dark, splotchy blemish on John’s golden aura, an unwanted interloper on the evening’s boisterous joy. He glances to the next table over, where a group of the spouses (aside from Jenny, he’d never bothered to learn their names) are taking lemon drop shots and squealing girlishly. Sherlock’s stomach churns. He’s never felt so out of place. It’s _hateful,_ all of it…

A voice in his ear brings him out of his mental spiral. “Hey, you. Fancy some air?” It’s Jenny, and she’s smiling at him with a empathetic look in her eye. “I’m gasping in here. Come on.”

He follows her out of the pub and into the brisk night air. She fishes in her pocket for a packet of cigarettes (she smokes? She used to. Gave it up two--no, three years ago, reserves a pack for special occasions, of which tonight is apparently one) and offers one to Sherlock. He considers momentarily, but then remembers John hates it when he tastes like an ashtray, so he politely declines. She lights up and they lean back against the rough brick of the pub’s facade, reveling in the blissful quiet of the street.

“Well, tonight’s turning out to be a shitshow,” she says with a shrug. “Guess it’s bound to happen, these rugby lads do like to go hard.”

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise and scuffs at a pebble on the ground with the toe of his shoe. He can’t think of anything to say.

“Hey.” She gives him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. “He loves you, you know? He’s a good man, and he’s crazy about you.”

Sherlock gives a snort and shakes his head. There’s no way she could know that. She doesn’t know John. She doesn’t even know _him,_ and how awkward and off-putting he is, and how terrible he is in social situations, and how he _embarrasses_ John in front of his friends and colleagues and most of the time he doesn’t _mean_ to do it, but he’s always been rubbish around people, and--

“Danny says he talks about you constantly. At first I think that Danny was really surprised that John was so… open with the squad. About being gay, you know.”

 _Not gay,_ Sherlock wants to say, but he holds his tongue.

“But I think that his openness was a good thing, for everyone. Before, I think Danny was… pretty… um, on the fence about gay men serving. But after meeting John, he’s changed his position entirely. It’s been a brilliant thing to witness, you know, that change in him. John’s really made a difference for him. And… you’ve made a difference for me.”

Sherlock is so startled, he can’t help but blink and look up to meet her eyes. They’re warm and earnest, searching his for a response.

“Before, I didn’t… I don’t really fit into the role of a good military wife, you know? I tried, I did, but… that lifestyle just isn’t for me. I always felt like the odd woman out. And then you came along, and finally, I wasn’t the strangest one there.”

Sherlock barks out a laugh despite himself, and Jenny grins in return. “What I mean is… I haven’t met many people out there as honest as you are. Parenthood is hard. And being a military spouse is hard. And sometimes one or both are shit, and before, I always felt ashamed for thinking it, let alone saying it. But… well, you let me be myself. And that’s made a difference.”

He bites his lip. He’s struggling to find the words to say what he wants to say, to convey to her what it’s meant to him to have someone to talk to about John’s PTSD for the first time ever, to feel like he wasn’t alone in helping John battle the demons that continued to plague him, despite long stretches of respite. To feel like he had an ally in all of this, for whatever it was worth.

“I… you… for me, as well.”

For a moment she just pauses, head cocked, and then the next thing he knows, she’s _laughing,_ not in a cruel, judgemental way, but in that honest, endearing way of hers that makes Sherlock feel undeniably fond of her. 

“Why, I think that’s the most heartfelt speech I’ve ever heard. You’re quite the orator, you know that, Sherlock Holmes? A regular Churchill.”

“Oh, shut up.” 

They’re both still giggling uncontrollably when John emerges from the pub, looking rather red and shiny, eyes glassy and bright.

“Oy, there you are! Was beginning to think you’d run off together and left me once and for all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

“Oh, if I should be so lucky as to snag this man of yours…” Jenny wraps her arm through his and gives Sherlock a playful nudge, which he indulgently returns.

“Come back inside, won’t you? We’re doing speeches!”

Sherlock cannot think of anything he’d like to do less, but the earnest look on John’s face tugs at his heart in a most annoying fashion, and the next thing he knows, he’s posted up at the bar nursing a whiskey, Jenny at his side, listening to what appears to be a never ending stream of bland platitudes and sentimental drivel uttered by increasingly knackered members of the squad. Sherlock devotes his attention to re-memorizing the ever-changing patterns of grey on the left side of John’s hair, and wills himself to be patient.

After what he can summarily scientifically conclude is a literal eternity, the pub is emptying out, and John is finally ready to leave. He’s two sheets to the wind, Sherlock can tell; rosy-cheeked and giggling, his gait unsteady and his words slightly slurred. Sherlock is actually a bit tipsy himself; after being dragged back inside, he and Jenny had resolutely worked their way through three whiskeys apiece, and he can tell by the way she pulls him in for a firm hug upon their departure that her inhibitions are lowered as well. He feels warm and calm and strangely doesn’t mind the embrace.

“I’ll see you at the next match, yeah?” Her eyes search his for affirmation.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She breaks into a wide grin, and gives him a wink as John grabs him by the arm and resolutely leads him outside.

And then Sherlock remembers what he’s _really_ here for.

They stagger their way to the hotel arm-in-arm, pausing only briefly at the corner to kiss (and grope and frot, and Christ, they need to get to their room _fast_ or Sherlock is going to go to his knees right here and now and get them both arrested), and from there it’s a sweaty tangle of limbs and garments and clumsy fumblings and finally (finally!) they’re in the bed and John is gloriously naked and propped up on the pillows, splayed before Sherlock like a feast, and Sherlock is hovering over him, drunk with the possibilities as much as the whiskey, head spinning and heart pounding, frantic and horney and desperate.

“What do you want, John?”

John blinks blearily up at him. “Wh’d’you want?”

“Anything. Everything. _Captain.”_

John’s face breaks into a roguish grin, and he surges up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. He tastes of lager and whiskey and-- Christ, is that _tequila?_ Sherlock had seen a few of the lads taking shots, but he knew John didn’t usually partake, yet the evidence doesn’t lie…

“Have at it, then.” John collapses dazedly back into the pillows. He seems a bit too far gone to be much use in all this, but hell, Sherlock can work with what he’s got, here.

He bends to suck at the crook of John’s neck, at just the place that drives him wild, and John arches and gasps beneath him as he worries the soft flesh between his teeth. Then he uses his tongue and lips to blaze a trail from John’s shoulder to his sternum, then begins to slowly, agonizingly kiss a path due south. 

Between each impassioned kiss, he begins to speak, his voice low and sultry, just the way he knows John likes. 

“O captain, my captain…” (He kisses the firm hardness of John’s breastbone), “Our fearful trip is done…” (His lips find purchase in the soft, concave space between John’s heaving ribs), “The ship has weather’d every rack…” (He licks along John’s abs, newly toned and firmed by his dedicated training), “The prize we sought is won…” (He nips over to John’s protruding hip bone before licking a teasing stripe up the crease of his groin, taking in the familiar scent that is so achingly, maddeningly _John)._ “The port is near--”

A snore interrupts him from his devoted ministrations, and he sits bolt upright, disbelief dousing him in a sobering deluge.

John was _asleep._

Not just asleep, but snoring resolutely, his half-hard cock rapidly losing interest in the proceedings as he surrendered entirely to what Sherlock quickly surmises is exhaustion and extreme intoxication.

Well, _shit._

Sherlock is _irate._ He’d endured all of this rugby nonsense for the _explicit_ purpose of being fucked senseless by a proper rugby captain, the stereotypical epitome of masculine prowess, hopped up on testosterone and adrenaline, looking to _claim_ and _conquer_ and show Sherlock exactly who was in charge, and Sherlock was… Sherlock was…

Well, Sherlock was quite dizzy, now that he thought about it. The room is spinning slightly, the edges of his vision blurred, and now that he thinks about it, he’s not completely hard himself. Perhaps John has the right idea here; perhaps they should just take a quick nap to sober up a bit, get their bearings…

Yes, a quick nap would be good, then Sherlock will go get them a glass of water and then they’ll be good to go…

He’ll just lie down and close his eyes for a moment, just until the spinning stops, just until…

The next thing he knows, he’s blinking his eyes open to find the room filled with the pale glow of an early dawn. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and when he finally does, he’s utterly mortified; he and John are both naked, but they’re sprawled out awkwardly on top of the the covers, reeking of stale alcohol and sweat. Sherlock’s mouth feels cottony and his head is pounding, and John is snoring quietly, a string of drool trailing from the corner of his mouth.

Christ. If only their criminal adversaries could see them now.

Mustering all of his lackluster strength, Sherlock manages to stagger his way to their overnight bag, from which he procures the bottle of paracetamol and makes way unsteadily to the bathroom, resolutely avoiding his own reflection in the mirror as he fills a glass and downs two of the pills. He turns the taps in the shower and steps under the spray, the steam clearing his head nearly as quickly as the medicine.

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, he feels almost human again. John is dead asleep, and Sherlock can’t blame him; the clock on the nightstand reads 6:06, and Sherlock can hardly blame John for indulging in a bit of a lie-in in his current state. Sherlock is rarely so lucky; his lack of need for sleep generally negates his ability to dawdle in bed much past sunrise under most conditions (with the distinct exceptions of the morning after cases, or the morning after coitus, which, Sherlock saltily recalls, distinctly did _not_ occur last night). He paws through their bag and comes up with a clean shirt and a pair of trousers, and he quickly dresses as quietly as possible before slipping out the door and through the hotel lobby to the city streets below. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been in this part of town, and he spends over two hours re-familiarising himself with the streets. He ventures as far south as the river, then follows its progress east, updating the maps in his Mind Palace as he cross-references them with his smartphone. It’s tedious work, but it passes the time, and he’s eager to feel productive after such a self-indulgent night. 

At long last, it’s nearing what John considers a “reasonable hour,” and Sherlock serendipitously happens across a bakery that advertises “The Best Sausage Roll In The World!” His transport dutifully notifies him that he _is_ a bit peckish, so he pops in and nabs a few pastries before turning his route back north to the hotel.

He returns to the room expecting to find John still dead to the world, so he’s caught entirely off-guard when the door swings open to reveal a freshly-showered John Watson clad in nothing but a hotel robe posted up in a chair by the window, flipping absently through the newspaper. He wants to say something sarcastic about last night (or maybe smart? Or sweet? He’s perplexingly flummoxed by his warring desires to punish John for passing out on him last night, and wanting to see if there’s a chance John will make it up to him). 

Luckily, John seems all too willing to take the reigns. He tosses the newspaper casually aside and in three strides he’s traversed the room, pulling Sherlock into a heated kiss, his body warm and fragrant from the shower, the familiar scent of his shampoo and soap filling Sherlock’s nostrils as his arms wrap resolutely around him. John’s lips are plush but persistent as they move against Sherlock’s, swiftly escalating the kiss from one of fondness to one filled with intention.

Gasping, Sherlock pulls away, his head reeling from the unexpected escalation. His cock is already hardening, but he’s still wrapping his head around the abrupt change of pace.

John gazes up at him with immeasurable fondness. “Sorry about last night, love. I got a bit… carried away with the lads, and I would _very_ much like to make it up to you, if you’d allow me.”

Sherlock blinks down at him, his brain scrambling to process John’s proposition.

“But we… the room. Check-out.”

“I’ve called the front desk and got us a late check-out.”

“I… brought sausage rolls.” He holds up the grease-stained bag in his hand, and John smiles amusedly at it.

“That was incredibly thoughtful of you, love. But if you’d be amenable, maybe we just put these aside”-- he takes the bag from Sherlock’s hand and deposits it on the nightstand-- “...and circle back to that later.” He turns back to face Sherlock and licks his lips, and Sherlock could swear he feels his own heart skip a beat.

“But they’ll… be cold.”

John rolls his eyes, and in one fluid movement, he drops his hotel robe to the ground. “If you’re so set on a sausage roll,” (he gestures towards what Sherlock suddenly registers is his incredibly prominent erection,) “might I interest you in mine?”

Sherlock can’t help it. He bursts into a fit of giggles, which John immediately returns. “Oh my _God_ , John. That was awful. Truly terrible.” 

“Well, you were practically begging for it.” Undeterred, John pulls him in for a searing kiss, and the sensation of his hardened length rubbing against Sherlock’s thigh erases any last inklings of hesitation in Sherlock’s mind. He supposes last night’s transgression was perhaps not _so_ unforgivable; perhaps he ought to let John at least _try_ and make it up to him…

He all but melts into John’s embrace, and the next thing he knows, John is pushing him down to his knees, whispering out a plea, his voice gravelly with desire. “Will you suck me, love? Please, woke up hard dreaming about those lips of yours, please, let me have your mouth…” His hands tangle in Sherlock’s hair as he guides him down before pulling him forward, the tip of his cock pressing eagerly against Sherlock’s parted lips.

For a split second, Sherlock considers protesting. After all, wasn’t _John_ supposed to be apologizing to _him?_

But the moment he flicks his eyes upward, the words die in on his tongue. 

Because Jesus _Christ._ Over the past few weeks he’d registered small changes in John’s body; the slight broadening of his shoulders from the extra hours at the gym, the gradual slimming of his waist in response to the healthy diet he’d (rather unfairly) imposed on the entire family as a part of his training, the flattening of his (already fairly taut) abs as a result of all the extra hours on the pitch, but now, from this particular angle in this particular light, Sherlock is able to take in the entire spectacle as he never had before.

Because John is _ripped._

His biceps and triceps have swollen and defined, flexing as he wraps his fingers resolutely in Sherlock’s curls to guide his head where he wants it to go. His pecs (which Sherlock has _always_ adored; his chest is more muscular than most men his age, and Sherlock loves running his hands over it as John fucks him) have become impossibly more pert and firm, his nipples peaking tantalizingly from his current state of arousal. 

And his abs.

There is…

There is…

There is a _line_ there that Sherlock can say with absolute certainty has never been there before, even half a decade ago when they first began having their _encounters,_ when John (and, admittedly, even he himself) were even fitter than they are today. It starts as an indent next to his hipbones and then plunges in a deep V to his groin, framing his abs in a most glorious fashion and serving as a delightful frame to his twitching erection.

It’s the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen.

His mouth fills with saliva, and suddenly, having John’s cock in his mouth sounds like the most brilliant idea in the world.

He makes no impartial efforts. He sucks John down in one steady slide, deepthroating him without any of his usual teasing foreplay. He hears John grunt in shock as the tip of his cock hits the back of Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock begins to swallow around his length enthusiastically, his eyes tearing up with the effort. John’s fingers tighten in his hair and he utters a strangled shout, which makes Sherlock internally smirk (while externally, he redoubles his efforts and wills his gag reflex to remain at bay).

He holds himself there as long as he possibly can, breathing through his nose to the best of his abilities as he works his mouth and throat around John’s throbbing length as John mutters and curses above him. Finally, he can’t take anymore and pulls off with a wet _pop,_ immediately descending to take one of John’s balls into his mouth where he proceeds to lick and suck on it while using his hand to work over John’s now-soaking shaft.

“Jesus _Christ,_ sweetheart, oh my God, _yes…”_ John’s hands are rotating frantically from Sherlock’s hair to his neck to his shoulders and then back up, restless and demanding as Sherlock works him over. Sherlock gazes up to revel in the beauty of John’s form above him, his muscles pulled taut as he stares down at Sherlock with single-minded devotion.

Sherlock cuts no corners. He alternates suckling John’s balls into his mouth as he thumbs the tip of his cock in quick, teasing strokes, delighting in the way that John’s abs quiver _just_ so every time he pauses in his ministrations to deliver a decadent lick from root to tip. In no time, his tongue is salty with the taste of John’s precome, and John’s fingers are so firmly entangled in his hair that it’s growing to be just the right side of painful. Sherlock has no idea how long he’s been at it; he simply loses himself in the feedback loop of pleasure as they’re both overcome with bliss.

In what feels like no time and an eternity all at once, John is pulling him to his feet and crushing their lips together desperately, his tongue plundering Sherlock’s mouth as he guides him backwards across the room until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he is suddenly, startlingly horizontal, John pulling his shirt up over his head and unceremoniously tossing it somewhere into the ether behind him. Then John is crouching above him and fumbling with his flies, eyes lust-addled and desperate as he pants hungrily into Sherlock’s mouth.

The sensation of John’s fingers wrapping around his cock is enough to send Sherlock arching off the bed, wailing helplessly as his hands drop to his sides, the sensation so overwhelming that he’s certain his brain will short-circuit. Above him, John lets out an echoing moan as he begins to stroke him, and Sherlock suddenly feels as if he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin. He wants _more,_ he needs _more,_ but when he tries to vocalize this, all that materializes is a pathetic whine.

“Oh, yes, love, you like that? Christ, your cock his so hard and wet already, God. Want to… need to…”

Then John’s throwing a let over to straddle him, lowering his hips until their cocks align before wrapping his hands around their mutual hardness and bringing them together, stroking them gently, the friction of John’s cock against his enough to make Sherlock cry out in desperation.

It’s mere moments before Sherlock can’t resist any longer. His hands fly up to meet John’s, fingers intermingling, Sherlock thumbing gently against their tips as John strokes their shafts. It’s an intricate, coordinated effort, and John grins down at him as they chase their mutual pleasure, stimulating each other and themselves all at once, eyes darting down to take in the erotic sight of their parallel lengths as they move against one another.

Eventually John pushes Sherlock’s hands gently away and then takes both of their shafts in the firm grip of his left and begins to jerk them, fast and hard, before leaning down to capture Sherlock’s lips in a delectable kiss.

It’s a familiar sensation but new all at once; years ago, back before the Fall and the rest of it all, this was one of the most common ways he and John would get each other off. Something about the friction and the angle and the pressure of it made lube unnecessary (back in those days, something about lube made their encounters feel too official, too formal, so they generally made do without), and all too soon, Sherlock remembers why; the exquisite heat between them is so erotic he’s suddenly on the verge of coming, and he has to bodily shove John off of him, gasping helplessly as he struggles to tamp down the urge.

John staggers backwards to his feet, panting, and Sherlock throws his arm over his eyes, uttering a frustrated moan. 

“You alright, love?” John’s voice is laced with concern.

Sherlock takes a few deep breaths. “Mmm. Yes. Just… too close, sorry. Too close.”

John chuckles, and Sherlock finally feels in control enough to remove his face from the crook of his elbow, and he blinks his eyes open to find John gazing down endearingly at him. He smiles back, now slightly embarrassed, but John just shrugs and takes it all in stride.

“Alright, we can slow it down a bit. But first, let’s get you out of these trousers. And Christ, you’re still wearing your shoes and socks? How the hell did we get this far with you in shoes and socks…”

John divests him of his clothes with methodical efficiency, narrating to himself all the while; Sherlock knows this is as much for his benefit as it is for John’s; it gives Sherlock a chance to get himself back under control. By the time he’s naked, he feels considerably calmer, and the urge to come has temporarily receded.

“So, love, I’d like to prep you now. Does that sound alright?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Good.” John grins and retreats momentarily to rummage through their suitcase, but he returns quickly with the lube in hand. “Can I suck you while I do this? I don’t have to if you’re too close, but Christ, your cock looks absolutely delicious this morning.”

Sherlock lets out what he feels fairly sure is an embarrassingly high-pitched giggle, but finally manages to formulate a response. “Yes, but, um… maybe just go light? Just the tip?”

“Just the tip it is.”

And with that, Captain John Watson gets down to business. Confusingly, he tosses the lube aside at the outset and focuses on just using his fingers, slick with saliva. It’s a beautiful, burning bloom that lights Sherlock up from the inside out, the sensation increased tenfold by the gentle suckling and tonguing of the head of his cock by John’s clever lips and tongue. John is careful to avoid his prostate (lest Sherlock reach the edge too quickly), and by the time he’s three fingers deep with his thumb massaging Sherlock’s perineum with practiced precision, Sherlock is seeing stars and all but begging for mercy.

 _Finally,_ John pulls back with one conclusive swirl of his tongue.

“So I was thinking… “

“Yes, John. Whatever you’re going to say, _yes.”_

John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Sherlock, we’ve been over this, that’s not how consent works. You have to let me finish my sentence first.”

“Ugh, fine.” Sherlock rolls his eyes exasperatedly, but finds it’s rather difficult to feign annoyance when John still has three fingers twisting determinedly inside his arse.

“So I was thinking… would you like to try 69’ing again?”

Sherlock’s a bit taken aback; they’d only ever tried that position a few times, and none had been what one might categorize as a success; as it turns out, Sherlock had a tendency to rather forget himself when he had John Watson’s lips around his cock, and he’d nearly choked John to death or used far more teeth than wholly acceptable on more than one occasion when he’d gotten carried away. He’d assumed at this point they’d written the position off as a lost cause.

“I… um, yes?”

“Excellent.” John breaks into a dazzling grin as he clambers onto the bed and flops down on his back beside Sherlock. “Up you get.”

“You… you want me on top?” Sherlock can’t hide the surprise in his voice; his position on top had been the primary cause of the choking the last few times around.

“Mmmhmm. Come on now, just be a bit careful, yeah? I trust you.”

“Okay, alright…” Sherlock rolls over, turns around, and awkwardly shifts into position, swinging his leg over so that he’s bracketing John’s head, his pulsing erection inches from his lips.

“Okay, you start, love. Suck me. Be gentle, now.”

Sherlock nods resolutely and bends to take John’s turgid length into his mouth. Slowly, he begins to bob his head, establishing a rhythm with familiar ease, gradually incorporating the use of his tongue in slow, complimentary swirls.

He hears John groan above him, and the next thing he knows, John’s arms are wrapped around his thighs, his hands on Sherlock’s arsecheeks, pulling them apart.

And then John sticks his tongue inside him.

Sherlock nearly chokes himself on John’s cock. He pulls off and gasps, the sensation of John’s tongue in the most sensitive part of him overriding every other sensation he’s currently experiencing. It’s wet and filthy and utterly _consuming._

“Oh my _God. Oh my God…”_ His forehead falls to John’s thigh as John redoubles his efforts, licking a broad stripe up his cleft before pausing to suck at his rim, punctuating the action with a series of delicate kitten licks that tease his entrance and make him feel like he’s about to turn inside out. “Nnnnnngh _ohmyGOD.”_

Back before the Fall, John had never rimmed Sherlock, and for the first few months of their rekindled relationship, the act had been exceedingly rare; he’d done it once or twice during their sessions of _unwinding,_ and maybe once in a blue moon before a particularly rigorous round of intercourse. But Sherlock can’t help but notice that John’s been doing it more and more lately; Sherlock is starting to wonder if perhaps it has anything to do with his acknowledgement of his own sexuality, now that he’s seeing a proper therapist about it--

But he’s quickly forced to file away that train of thought for future inspection, because John has now lowered himself to suck on Sherlock’s balls and lap at his perineum before making his way back up to lavish more attention on his quivering hole.

Sherlock howls, eyes squinting shut as he surrenders to the sensations, but the moment is lost as John’s mouth suddenly disappears, leaving Sherlock whimpering at the loss.

“Love? Glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself down there, but part of this is that you’ve got a job to do, too.”

“Oh! Right! Right!” Of _course,_ how could Sherlock have been so selfish? He resolutely shakes his head clear before reaching down to hold John’s cock upright so that he can sink his plush mouth down the length of it.

Sherlock is fairly certain that when he dies, he will remember this moment as one of his greatest accomplishments. Despite whatever depraved sorcery John is performing on his arse, Sherlock _somehow_ manages to re-establish a steady rhythm on John’s cock, even having the presence of mind to use one of his hands to fondle and squeeze John’s balls as he does so. In no time, they’re both moaning obscenely, the vibrations from John’s mouth making his hole clench eagerly, attempting to pull John’s tongue further inside him.

Suddenly, John pulls back with an exasperated groan. “Christ, Sherlock, this feels incredible but I can’t keep my neck in that position any more to hold up my head. Can you, um, sit up a bit and…. Uh, sit on my face?”

Sherlock pulls off of his cock, a string of drool coating his chin as he messily wipes it away. “I… yes, I think so, but then I can’t keep my mouth on you…”

“Doesn’t matter, use your hand, I’m wet enough.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to be asked twice. He pulls himself up onto his knees and lowers himself backwards until he feels the familiar heat of John’s lips against his hole. Moaning, he reaches forward to take John’s cock in one hand, then uses his other hand to reach behind himself and pull his arsecheek to the side, granting John deeper entrance. John lets out a muffled moan, his hands flying to Sherlock’s hips, pulling him down into position.

It’s only then that it occurs to Sherlock to twist around and look down. His eyes meet John’s.

He nearly comes on the spot. John is staring up at him with a blazing heat so palpable that it makes Sherlock’s whole body flush. The vision of John Watson’s face _there,_ buried between his two spread cheeks as his hidden tongue twists and plunges inside of him, is so erotic that it sears itself into his memory; there will be a WALL of his Mind Palace emblazoned with this image, smoldering there for all eternity, from this moment forward.

And it appears he’s not alone in his reaction. John moans obscenely against his hole and begins to thrust his cock up into Sherlock’s fist. The next thing he knows, John’s free hand has snaked around to stroke Sherlock’s cock, and he cries out, head tipping back, forced to break their gaze as the sensations wash over him like a rising tide.

They carry on like this for what feels like ages. John never provides enough friction in his grip on Sherlock’s cock for Sherlock to come, and while the rimming is exquisite, there’s not enough direct stimulation to push him over the edge. For his part, Sherlock continues to stroke John’s cock in the light, firm pattern that he knows keeps John teetering near the edge without ever pushing him over. They simply coast along the plateau, a low chorus of moans and curses the only indication that either of them is still cognizant. 

At long last, John’s lips pull away and he’s heaving a wet sigh, his cock heavy and nearly purple in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock can only close his eyes and moan.

“Christ, sweetheart… want… need to fuck you. Please, need to… need to be inside you now…” John’s voice sounds wet and desperate, and Sherlock’s cock throbs in anticipation. He cannot think of anything he’d like more than to roger himself senseless on John’s gorgeous prick _right the hell now._

But he’s past the point he can vocalize any of this. He merely manages a short grunt of affirmation before leaning forward to frantically rummage between the pillows for the lube. After what feels like what is quite possibly the longest, most agonizing quest in history (it doesn’t help that John continues to finger his hole absently as Sherlock tears apart the bed looking for the bottle), Sherlock sits up, a triumphant cry on his lips. He drizzles a generous dose onto his fingers and reaches behind himself to slick up John’s length, then tosses the bottle carelessly to the side. Then he plants his feet on the mattress until he’s in a squat, leans back and locks out his arms on either side of John’s shoulders, and wails at the top of his lungs as he impales himself on John’s length in one forceful stroke. He used to be self-conscious about riding John facing away from him (John has an unimpeded view of Sherlock’s hideously scarred back in this position), but he’d long since learned John was MUCH more interested in watching himself penetrate Sherlock’s arse than looking at the deformed flesh of his back.

“Oh, _fuck,_ oh my God, Sherlock, _yes, fuck, gorgeous.”_ John sounds completely breathless, and Sherlock is somewhat reassured to know he’s not the only one falling to pieces here. With a smug sigh, he begins to raise and lower his pelvis, delighting in the slick slide of John’s rigid cock inside of him.

After so much foreplay, the depth of penetration feels sudden and shocking. The tip of John’s prick is skimming over Sherlock’s prostate with each undulation; not striking it directly (which always brings Sherlock to the brink in record time), but simply pressing against it in soft, urgent strokes. It’s absolute ecstasy, and Sherlock lets his head fall back as he gasps for air, desperate to center himself amidst the rising heat of their coupling. He can feel his cock oozing precome as he raises and lowers himself over and over, and it’s mere moments before John’s hand is reaching around to take him in hand, jerking him in time with Sherlock’s movements.

“FUCK! John, oh God, yes, there, just there, fuck--”

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck yourself on my cock, yeah, that’s it, that’s it--”

“ _Fuck me,_ oh God, John, YES--”

“Oh Christ, Sherlock, look at you. _Look at you.”_

Sherlock heaves in another ragged breath. This position feels incredible, but his arms are starting to shake, and it’s with a distinct sensation of regret that he shifts his weight forward, feet planted firmly, freeing his hands and reallocating a majority of the strain to his thighs. He continues to raise and lower himself as best he can, but John steps up to the plate in the most glorious fashion, commencing a series of powerful thrusts up into Sherlock that all but take his breath away, never ceasing in his ministrations on Sherlock’s cock all the while.

“John. John. John.” It seems to be the only word that Sherlock’s lips will form, and he utters it over and over like a benediction. John answers with a series of bitten-off grunts, grinding into Sherlock’s arse with vocal enthusiasm. Sherlock gasps and reaches down with his now-free hands to begin caressing each of their balls in turn.

“Nnnnnggggghhhh SHERLOCK! Oh Christ, oh don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck, sweetheart, don’t stop, yes, just like that, love, GOD, oh God, oh _God…”_

They’re both nearing overstimulation, Sherlock can tell. Between John’s hand on his cock, John’s cock in his arse, and his own hand on his balls, Sherlock’s erogenous zones are well and truly covered, and he’s quite aware from the sounds of things behind him that John is thoroughly enjoying the proceedings as well. As such, it’s perhaps for the best when Sherlock’s thighs begin to tremble from the strain, and he melts slowly backwards to recline against John’s chest, drunk on lust, still shaking and sweat-soaked with desire.

“Mmmm, oh sweetheart, that was lovely.” John’s pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses up the length of his neck, pausing only to nibble at his earlobe in just the way that makes Sherlock quiver and twitch. He moans helplessly, and he can hear John chuckling behind him as he rolls Sherlock over in one fluid motion so that Sherlock is now trapped face-down on the mattress, his cock never leaving Sherlock’s arse as he does so. As soon as he has his bearings, John firmly brackets Sherlock’s thighs with his own, forcing them tightly together (Sherlock’s arsecheeks clench gloriously around John’s length), then he plants his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and proceeds to ream him mercilessly.

Being so roughly manhandled and now held firmly in place by John’s delightfully muscular form has Sherlock seeing stars. He sinks his teeth into the duvet and grasps helplessly at John’s wrists, but John remains undeterred; he continues to pummel into Sherlock’s prone form with unwavering gusto, pinning him into place and having his way with him in a manner that makes Sherlock feel intoxicatingly wanton. His head is swimming and he’s completely immobilized, the sensation of John’s cock inside him the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He yearns to spread his legs, to invite John to fuck him deeper, but John keeps Sherlock’s legs trapped resolutely between his own as he thrusts brutally into him, a long litany of profanity passing his lips as he does so.

After what seems to be an eternity and a split second all at once, John is pulling out, leaving Sherlock whimpering indignantly in his absence.

“Shhh, love, not done with you yet. Want to… want to try something new here, just… hang on…”

There’s the sound of some awkward fumbling, then the _snick_ of the cap being popped off the lube, then John’s legs are moving, pressing Sherlock’s knees apart, forcing him to spread his legs wide as John shuffles forward on his knees before reaching down with one hand to firmly massage Sherlock’s left arsecheek.

“Alright, sweetheart. Can you reach behind yourself and spread yourself for me?” Sherlock blearily complies, gripping his cheeks and pulling them apart, his hole feeling raw and exposed in the cool air of the room. _“God,_ that’s lovely. So gorgeous. You’re so open for me right now, love, can you feel it?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Hold still, now.” The next thing Sherlock knows, John is drizzling a completely unnecessary amount of lube onto his crack and into his hole, pausing briefly to press it in with a finger before pulling out and adding some more. Though not entirely unpleasant, the sensation sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine; the lube feels unnaturally cold, and the act of holding himself open like this as John works it into him is making him feel utterly debauched. He moans, and he can hear John chuckling behind him.

“Good, love, gorgeous. Now, I want you to keep holding yourself open like that while I fuck you, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock’s brain has gone blissfully quiet, full of white noise, and all he can think of right now is complying.

“Alright. Then I’m going to try something new. I think you’ll like it, but if you don’t, just say ‘stop,’ okay?”

“Mmm.”

“I need a real answer, Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Sherlock sighs, the fact that he’s currently face-down on the mattress holding his arse open for John’s perusal no reason not to voice is exasperation at John’s non-stop obsession with _consent._

“Yes, I’ll stop you if I don’t like what you’re doing. But honestly, John, I hardly think--”

But before he can finishing his sentence, John is thrusting into him once again, the copious amount of lube inside of him making the act obscenely wet, and he cries out at the sensation of being so overfilled.

“Mmmm, God, yes, so wet, so gorgeous. So beautiful, sweetheart.” John establishes a firm, steady pace, and Sherlock wails into the bedsheets as the sounds of obscene squelching begin to fill the room. “Just like that. Beautiful. Hold very still now, love.” And with that, John withdraws nearly all the way, until just the tip of his cock is resting inside Sherlock’s quivering hole.

And then, without warning, John takes his finger and presses just the tip of it in alongside his cock.

Sherlock gasps, the reality of what John is attempting to do crashing over him in sobering waves. He wants this-- _yes,_ of course he wants this, he loves being overstimulated and fucked to the point of pain, and sure, he’s fantasized about this act one or two (or thirty-six) times whilst having a wank, but it had never occurred to him that John would be willing to try it, and yet…

“Alright, love?”

“Nnngh. Yes. Oh, God, _yes.”_

“Good. Okay, then.” John takes a deep breath and slowly, ever so slowly, presses his finger fully inside, until Sherlock can feel his knuckles pressed against his perineum. “Beautiful. Deep breath now, okay?” 

Sherlock nods. Thank God John doesn’t ask him to speak, because he’s fairly certain he couldn’t if he tried. All he can do is lie still, trembling from head to toe, as John slowly, carefully presses his cock in alongside his finger.

When he bottoms out, Sherlock screams. He can’t help it; the sensation of fullness is so overwhelming it’s utterly consuming. He’s stretched further than he ever has been before, and the throbbing of John’s length alongside his finger is sending shock waves up Sherlock’s spine, overwhelming his brain. It’s _good, it’s so good, he can’t move, he can’t think--_

And just when he thinks he can’t take anymore, John begins to thrust.

His movements are gentle, slow and unhurried, clearly taking every precaution as he pushes Sherlock’s limits. His thumb is massaging Sherlock’s rim, distributing the lube generously around the stretching tissue, gentling him open around the impossible stretch he’s experiencing.

But it’s the feeling _inside_ that’s truly overwhelming. Despite the fact that John’s cock isn’t striking Sherlock’s prostate head-on in the way that usually sends him careening over the edge, the sheer unrelenting _pressure_ against it is making Sherlock feel more turned on then he ever has before. It’s an arousal born of an intense, overwhelming fullness that’s wholly incomprehensible in its nature, and all Sherlock can do is gasp helplessly in its wake, trying to keep his head above the undertow that threatens to drag him down.

He doesn’t remember starting to come. He becomes aware that he’s ejaculating sometime midway through his release, wetness pulsing out in a slow, steady stream from his turgid cock, trapped between his stomach and the bedsheets below. It’s a strange, consuming thing, and he begins to cry out helplessly as it happens. 

It seems to last forever; happening not so much in waves as in an agonizing, endless _push,_ the stream of come escaping him persistent and obscene. He’s distantly aware of John’s reassuring words behind him, gentling him, running his free hand up and down Sherlock’s spine, encouraging him to ride out his pleasure to its fullest extent. He complies, not that he feels he has much of a choice in the matter; his transport has taken over entirely, and by the time he feels his hole fluttering and then dilating as the sensations taper off, he’s fairly certain he’s having an out of body experience.

The next thing he knows, John is rolling him onto his side. His finger is gone but his cock is still inside him, thrusting into him gently as John wraps his arms around Sherlock and pulls him close to his chest. Sherlock, for his part, is slack-jawed and dizzy, barely coherent enough to process the words John is saying.

“Oh my God, love, that was incredible. Christ, look how much you _came,_ God, I’ve never seen anything like that before, Jesus…”

Sherlock just closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.

John continues to fuck him from behind for a while as they lie on their sides, but Sherlock can’t muster the will to participate much; he feels limp and drained and helpless, bleary and discombobulated. He lets John use his body for his pleasure, surrendering himself to John’s desires.

But then John is pulling out of him and rolling him onto his back. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, issuing a huff of surprise, and finds John smiling down at him.

“Shhh, it’s alright, love, I think your body’s done. Can I finish on your face instead?”

Sherlock nods twice and opens his mouth, and John moves to straddle his chest before cradling Sherlock’s head in one hand and holding it up, while jerking his cock frantically with the other.

It’s only a few seconds before John is shooting streaks of come into Sherlock’s mouth and across his cheekbones, grunting animalistically as he makes a mess of him. Sherlock, for his part, opens his mouth as wide as possible, sticking out his tongue to catch as many drops as he can.

As soon as he finishes, John collapses into the bed by Sherlock’s side, chest heaving, a few choice curse words still making their way past his lips as he comes down from his high. Moments later, he pulls Sherlock close, and begins to run his finger through the come on Sherlock’s face before holding it in front of Sherlock’s mouth for him to suck clean.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, but Sherlock remembers why he’s always adored it so much. The act of being fed John’s release feels achingly personal and intensely erotic in a way that transcends the normal boundaries of sex, and he eagerly accepts each fingerful with a contented hum until the last of it is gone from his face.

And then there’s nothing but silence, broken only by the staggered gasps between them, unsteady and ragged in the stillness that has descended. The daylight streaming in through the windows gives everything a surreal quality; Sherlock feels wholly disorientated and completely spent, the realisation that it’s barely after 10AM incomprehensible to his floundering brain. He closes his eyes and drifts for a while, waiting for his systems to reboot. John holds him close, not speaking, just _being,_ the two of them curled up against one another, floating on the immaculate high.

Finally, John shifts and pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning quietly. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, the bright beams of sunlight catching and refracting through his lashes as he struggles to come back to reality. 

John casts a fond glance in his direction. “Hi there, love.”

Sherlock grins shyly up at him.

“You back?”

Sherlock shrugs.

John rolls his eyes indulgently before turning to kneel beside Sherlock, his expression soft and full of devotion.

“Sweetheart, can I check you over now? I was pretty careful, but I just want to make sure everything’s in order. That was… well, that was a lot.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away. He knows that John, ever the doctor, will of course insist on checking Sherlock for tearing (after all, he does this every time they have penetrative intercourse, it’s simply in his nature), but the recollection of how obscenely _stretched_ Sherlock had felt makes him hesitant to let anyone touch him there so soon. Now that the heady rush of endorphins is subsiding, he’s acutely aware that he’s in a considerable amount of pain; not the sharp, searing pain that would indicate something was amiss, but simply the persistent ache that dutifully notifies him he’ll be feeling this for days to come.

“Sherlock, please. You know I have to do this. We need to be safe about these things, if we’re going to push you like that. You understand, yeah?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock nods and rolls over onto his stomach, careful to avoid the (frankly alarmingly large) wet spot next to him.

“Alright, shhh, just hold still, it’ll be over in a moment.”

Sherlock sucks in a breath as John parts his cheeks. His hole feels raw and inflamed, and the contact with the cool air of the room is a stark reminder of the amount of lubricant leaking from him. He gives a soft whine and buries his face in the pillow.

“That’s it, love. Going to touch you now, it’ll be alright, almost done.” And then John’s finger is tracing his rim, and Sherlock is gulping down deep breaths, willing himself to remain pliant and calm instead of recoiling the way he wants to. Then ever so gently, John presses his finger inside and begins to move it slowly in and out, checking for any sign of bleeding. 

Sherlock shudders and gasps through the duration of the examination, his nerve endings overstimulated to the point of pain. John does his best to be kind about it, but there could be no avoiding the discomfort of the act, and by the time he’s finished, Sherlock is blinking back tears.

“There we go, it’s over now, we’re done.” He rolls Sherlock over and presses a firm kiss against his lips, brushing his sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “I’m sorry if that was too much. We don’t have to do it again if it was too uncomfortable, but I just thought you might--”

“No.”

It’s the first word Sherlock has spoken, and John seems summarily startled. “No?”

“No. It wasn’t too uncomfortable. I want that… again.”

A small smile begins to tug at the corner of John’s lips. “... You do?”

“Yes. Maybe not anytime soon, I need to… recover a bit. But yes, I’d like to do it again. It was… Christ, John, it was incredible.”

John is beaming now, staring at Sherlock as though he’s announced Christmas has come early. “Oh! Good! I’m… I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did, John. I really, really did.” And with that, he hooks his arm around the back of John’s neck and pulls him down for a searing kiss, which quickly (and quite unexpectedly) transforms into a rather pleasurable makeout session. They’re both far too spent to go again, but John lets himself be pulled back into bed at Sherlock’s side, and they lie like that, exploring each others’ mouths for what feels like ages, the act intimate and earnest instead of erotic.

At long last they lose steam, resting on their sides facing one another, foreheads touching, breath intermingling, John’s hand steady and unassuming on Sherlock’s waist. The world feels calm and serene.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad… I’m glad you joined the squad. I think it’s been… Good. For you. For, um, us.”

“Me, too, sweetheart. I think… I think seeing Dr. Richards is helping a lot, too. I feel… better. More at peace.”

“Good. So I was thinking…”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I may break my strict new friend quota.”

“Is that so?”

“As much as it pains me to admit, I feel like Jenny and Danny might be an excellent addition to the invite list for our holiday party.”

“TWO new friends this year? The horror! You need to stop being such a social butterfly, or we’re going to run out of space to host at our flat!”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock swats at his shoulder affectionately, and John grins back at him, clearly pleased as punch by Sherlock’s begrudging admission before pulling him back in to smother him with kisses once more.

And so Sherlock knows that today will be a good day. They’ll eat their pastries and clean up and then take a taxi back to their flat, where Mrs. Hudson and Rosie will greet them with smiles and hugs all around. And then perhaps there will be time to take Rosie to the park, where John will hold Sherlock’s hand and run interference whenever other annoyingly meddlesome couples attempt to make conversation, and Sherlock will dutifully ignore them and focus his undivided attention upon the grand spectacle of Rosie at play, pristine in her perfection. Tonight, John will insist on cooking dinner even though he’s exhausted, and it will be resoundingly mediocre, but Sherlock will eat a few bites anyway, because that’s what people _do._ They’ll put Rosie to bed after three rounds of books and six lullabies, then they’ll watch some crap telly before collapsing into bed themselves, spent from a long day of doing absolutely nothing of consequence.

Because Sherlock knows that there will also be bad days. Days when John’s PTSD creeps up on him in the most unexpected places, rendering him short-tempered and sullen. Days when Sherlock’s Dark Moods will cloud his vision with brooding doubt, bitter and black and unforgiving. Days when Harry will come by and demand too much, days when Mycroft will drop in and push Sherlock too far, days when Rosie will leave them at their wits’ end. Days when a slur hurled at them by a stranger on the street will leave John distant and cold, days when a cruel name hissed in Sherlock’s direction will make John seethe and stew.

But always, there are more good days than bad ones. And all Sherlock can do is his best to make them count.


End file.
